


Stuck

by nagginggargoyle



Category: Glee
Genre: Alternate Universe - Werewolf, F/F, Faberry Week 2013, Faberry Week 2014, Fluff, Hurt/Comfort
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-02
Updated: 2014-11-30
Packaged: 2018-02-07 04:14:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 4
Words: 7,151
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1884804
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nagginggargoyle/pseuds/nagginggargoyle
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which Rachel is a werewolf and Quinn lives alone in a cabin in the woods.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Snowed In

**Author's Note:**

> For Faberry Week 2013 day 7: snowed in.
> 
> Warnings: mention of suicide, violence, blood, panic attacks.

_"The storm is expected to hit our area in the next four to six hours. Residents are advised to stay inside, lock the doors, keep their heaters on and, as always, be wary of stray werewolves. In other news…"_

Quinn turned off the radio and sighed. She could feel a headache coming on. She regulated her breathing and concentrated on slow, deliberate motions as she boiled water to make tea. The last thing she needed was to burn her hands today.

There was going to be a snowstorm today. Which meant that it was going to be even less possible than usual for her to leave the house. Of course, she always had enough food around for at least a couple of weeks, but she still needed to go out at least far enough to get some more firewood before the storm hit.  _Such an eminently comforting prospect,_  Quinn thought bitterly.

Finishing her tea and pulling on all her thermal shit, her sturdiest boots and her favorite axe, Quinn grimaced bracingly and stepped outside.

* * *

"Oh,  _shit_."

On the hard, half-frozen ground, completely naked and shaking violently, Quinn found a tiny figure lying curled in around itself.

"Fucking  _shit_ ," she repeated. "At least you're still alive. How the hell am I going to carry you?"

Quinn dropped her axe on the ground. Hopefully she'll be able to find it after the storm passes, but probably not. Then she examined the figure at her feet. It was a woman, breathing shallowly and cold as ice. She was small, yes, but probably not small enough for Quinn to simply pick up and carry in her arms. On the other hand, jarring movements could be very dangerous to someone in her condition.

Sighing in resignation, Quinn crouched down and gently coaxed the woman onto her back, and carried her piggyback all the way to her home.

* * *

"Hypothermia, hypothermia…" Quinn muttered to herself as she filled up two hot water bottles and gathered as many warm blankets as she could find.

"This was very stupid of you, lady," she told the woman lying on her carpet in front of her fireplace. "There are much nicer ways to die, you know. Oh, you're not shivering anymore. Bad sign."

Quinn placed the bottles beneath the woman's armpits, piled all of the blankets on top of her, took a deep breath, and started peeling off her many layers.

"I'm taking my clothes off for you, lady. You'd better be grateful, if you survive this."

Stripped down to her underwear and wool socks, Quinn pursed her lips, focused on her breathing, lifted the blankets, and crawled inside them so she could wrap herself thoroughly around a complete stranger.  _Naked_.

"Fuck fuck fuck fuck  _fuck_. Don't panic. Don't panic. No panicking. You're fine. No panic attacks. Just a half-dead pretty lady in desperate need of your direct body heat." She gritted her teeth, but she could already feel her breathing snag and stutter, and there was something dark and consuming just behind her eyes, waiting to enfold her. She hugged the icy body in her arms tighter. " _Don't_.  _Panic_."

They remained frozen like that, the woman again shaking with cold and Quinn shaking with the effort of warding off her anxiety, until slowly, slowly, the woman's skin thawed and her heart rate slowed and evened.

"You're okay. You're okay," Quinn breathed in relief, and she wasn't entirely certain to which of them she was referring.

* * *

Once the woman regained full consciousness and most of the disorientation wore off, Quinn hurriedly dressed them both back up and made tea.

"You need to rehydrate," she explained. "Also I like tea."

"Where am I?" the woman asked her, confused but strangely calm.

"My house," Quinn answered simply and sipped her tea, too numb to feel its burn.

"Why am I here?"

"That's a good question. Why  _are_  you here?" Quinn repeated. "Alone? And naked? Were you trying to kill yourself?"

The woman frowned. "No," she said. "I was trying to get lost."

"Why?"

The woman idly turned her teacup around between three fingers. "Do you know what day it is?"

"Tuesday," Quinn replied reflexively.

"The fourteenth."

"Right."

The woman smiled somewhat bitterly. "Night of a full moon."

"Oh." Quinn took another sip. "You're a werewolf?"

"The best thing to do is always to get lost," the woman said quietly. "When you're lost, you don't hunt. You're too scared."

"And going out naked and alone into a snowstorm is absolutely the best way to get lost," Quinn told her angrily. "You have no idea how lucky you are that I found you."

"And you have no idea how unlucky you are that you did."

The perfect desolation in the woman's voice was almost painful just to hear.

"Why don't you just lock yourself in?" Quinn asked her.

"I don't… I don't  _have_  anywhere to lock myself in."

Quinn nodded. Homeless werewolves were very common. "What about a wolf shelter?"

The woman's grip tightened on her untouched teacup. "I'd freeze to death a hundred times over," she said, "before I go back to a place like that."

Quinn finished her tea and put the empty cup down just a little too hard on the table.

"So you  _were_  trying to kill yourself," she stated.

"No," said the woman. "I was just running."

"But you don't mind if you die."

Something harsh and terrifying passed over the woman's features too quickly to confirm. "I'm tired of running."

Quinn leaned back in her chair and rubbed her palms on her pant legs. She had no answers to give this woman, and it hurt.

"Why are  _you_  here?" the woman asked her suddenly.

"Here where?"

"In a secluded cabin in the woods in the middle of a snowstorm, here."

"I live here."

"Why do you live here?"

"Oh, because I'm a vampire," Quinn replied matter-of-factly.

The woman stared. "Really?"

Quinn raised an eyebrow. "No."

"Oh." She almost sounded disappointed.

Quinn sighed. "I'm Quinn," she informed the woman. "And I'm not going to let you die, be advised. But if you try to eat me, I'm dressing you up and kicking you out."

"Noted. What'll I be wearing?"

"Many, many layers. You will look very silly."

The woman smiled. Her smile was… something. "I'm Rachel," she said. "Rachel Berry."

* * *

The storm outside made its best impression of old school horror movies and the fire in the fireplace crackled meaningfully, and Quinn and Rachel sat cross-legged on the carpet and played board games.

Quinn was winning.

Rachel was staring intently at the board when Quinn found herself making a confession.

"I have PTSD," she said.

Rachel didn't look up. "D-14."

"Miss. That's why I live here. Being around people is hard for me. A-5."

"Hit! You're good at this. Uh… F-9."

"Still miss. Aren't you going to ask?"

Rachel glanced up from the board to fix Quinn with a look that was surprisingly solemn. "I don't go after other people's secrets," she said, and looked away again. "It's your turn."

Quinn felt somewhere in the middle between wanting to laugh and wanting to throw up. "A-6," she said finally.

"Okay, you've sunk my battleship!" Rachel announced. "You really are good at this game."

* * *

"I've got a basement."

"Okay?"

"It's got a sturdy door. And a lock."

"Look, Quinn…"

"Just stay until the storm passes. I'll get the spare mattress down there, a proper heat generator. Some raw meat, if you want."

Rachel grimaced. "I'm vegan."

Quinn laughed. "Oh, wow. A vegan werewolf. Wow. Okay."

"Not funny."

"Is too. Look, I won't murder you and bury you under the floorboards or anything, I promise. Stay the night. You can tear the spare mattress up if you get wolfie-angry or whatever, nobody uses it anyway. If it clears up tomorrow, you can go. But I'm not letting you kill yourself, okay?"

"Aren't you scared?"

"Of you? You're like, what, four feet tall?"

"I'm almost 5'2''!"

"Oh, yeah,  _terrifying_."

"That's – that's not the point! I'm a werewolf! I… I can  _kill_  people!"

"And my basement door is thicker than your head. Also you should see my knife collection." Quinn smiled sardonically. "I've got the complete serial killer accessory kit. I think you're the one who should be scared."

"I can take care of myself," Rachel said.

"So can I."

"And I've got pepper spray in my… boot… which I forgot I don't have right now."

Quinn took her keys out of her pocket and unhooked the tiny can on the keychain. "Here, you can have one of mine."

"That's right, arm the freaking werewolf."

Quinn pressed the can into Rachel's palm and tried not to flinch when Rachel's fingers grazed hers.

"Stay, okay?" she asked.

Rachel stared at the pepper spray for a while.

And then she said, "Okay."

* * *

That night, Quinn dreamed about teeth a lot. There was the rending of flesh and the crunching of bones and the stench of gore and stomach acids, but, at least it was a nice change of pace from her usual nightmares.

In the morning, she opened up the cellar door to find Rachel naked again, huddled in a corner and tightly hugging a half-torn pillow. Quinn's spare mattress lay on its side against the wall, thoroughly skinned and gutted.

Quinn threw a fresh set of warm fuzzy sweaters on top of Rachel, who didn't wake up, and climbed back up to the kitchen to make some goddam meat-, eggs- and dairy-free breakfast for the vegan fucking werewolf.

* * *

Looking frazzled and frumpy and aggressively adorable in Quinn's shapeless, too-large sweaters and still clutching the shredded pillow, Rachel finally emerged from the cellar and plopped down on a kitchen chair in front of Quinn's vegan-friendly breakfast.

"I ruined your mattress and your blanket and," she held up her snuggle buddy, "this pillow."

"Mmm," Quinn replied as she mixed some crushed garlic and lemon juice into the tahini she was making.

"Sorry."

"I hope you like Mediterranean cuisine," Quinn told her.

"I –" Rachel looked like she was going to apologize again, but then she didn't. "Yes," she said, "definitely."

They ate quietly, saying almost nothing, Quinn's butchered pillow tucked between Rachel's legs to free up her hands so she could eat. Quinn couldn't decide whether it was endearing or depressing. Someone like Rachel deserved to have something more alive to snuggle with.

When they finished washing the dishes and wrapping the leftovers up, Rachel exhaled loudly and looked at Quinn.

"So, what now?" she asked.

"Whatever you want," Quinn said. "The storm's passed, though the snow's still here, and I get the feeling you wouldn't wanna contact the authorities to get some sort of emergency evacuation. I could get you to the nearest town myself, but, I don't know. It's up to you."

"Yeah."

"Or you could stay here a few more days." Quinn shrugged and glanced down. "I've got scrabble."

"I will kick your butt at scrabble," Rachel warned.

"You clearly haven't seen my thesaurus."

Rachel chuckled. "No, I haven't seen your thesaurus."

"Stay, and I'll show you."

"I'd like that. But I –"

"'S a very comprehensive thesaurus. Perfect for swatting stubborn ravenous werewolves on the head with, you know."

"The moon's still sufficiently full," said Rachel.

"My cellar door's still nobody-will-hear-you-scream thick," countered Quinn.

"You… really wouldn't mind?"

Quinn shrugged again. It took her a somewhat great deal of willpower to refrain from physically crossing her fingers.

Rachel's smile was rather brilliant. "Go get your thesaurus, then," she said.

Quinn didn't know about brilliance, but she was fairly certain her own smile was, at the very least, pretty embarrassingly wide.


	2. Scars

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> For Faberry Week 2014 day 1: scars

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings: child sexual abuse, violence, blood, scars.

It's been almost a month since Quinn found a hypothermic, barely-conscious Rachel in the woods outside her house. It's been almost a month since she'd asked her to stay a couple more days, just until the snow clears up. It's been almost a month, and, Rachel's still here.

Quinn's discovered all sorts of little things about Rachel during that month. That Rachel likes to sing, for example. And not just in the shower, like Quinn does sometimes, but everywhere, at any time, for any reason. She sings when cooking and when watching Quinn cook; she sings when she has something to say and she sings when she doesn't; she sings when looking out windows and when she's falling asleep; she sings for going to the bathroom.

Sometimes she sings without words and sometimes she sings songs from years and years ago, from Quinn's childhood, from times she'd rather not recall. But whenever she sings, Quinn is powerless to do anything but listen, because Rachel's voice, perhaps more than any other thing, is something she can soak herself in and lose herself in and not even mind at all.

* * *

They're in Quinn's room, and Rachel's just finished singing something old and happy and beautiful that Quinn can only vaguely recall. Rachel had closed her eyes somewhere during the course of the song, and now Quinn finds herself staring at her eyelashes as her eyes flutter open.

"I'm so glad I found you," Quinn tells her, looking at her with probably all her emotions spilling out. She just can't really help that around Rachel.

Rachel looks back at her, biting her lip, an expression Quinn can't quite identify wavering on her face.

And then, suddenly, Rachel stretches up and, so quickly Quinn barely has time to register her moving, kisses Quinn on the mouth.

A fraction of a peck, not even really a kiss, just a ghostly brush of lips on lips and not even any sounds made, nothing, nothing to start violently about, nothing to clench her lungs so starkly and  _squeeze_  –

"No, no, Quinn, no, I'm so sorry – I just –"

Quinn staggers back and shakes her head, shakes her hands, just shakes. She tries to grasp onto herself, her room, her safe, safe room with an axe in the corner and no blind spots, but she's slipping. Rachel took her by surprise, she hadn't seen it coming, hadn't had a chance to prepare, and –

"Quinn, Quinn, I'm so so sorry, please, I should have known –"

It wasn't her fault, but it happened, and now Quinn needs to get away.

"Please, Quinn. What do you need me to do?" Rachel asks pleadingly.

"Just – just s-stay there," Quinn chokes out. "Don't touch me. Stay there."

She stumbles all the way to her bathroom, banging her shoulders and elbows against the sharp edges and hard surfaces of things she can't identify. Once inside, she shuts the door and somehow manages to turn the lock, and curls up under the sink in the corner between the tub and the wall, and throws every last drop of willpower into continuing to  _breathe_.

_Her father is knocking on the door._

No, no one is knocking on the door. There is no one here but Rachel, and she told Rachel to stay away.

Rachel – Rachel would listen to her. Rachel wouldn't…

_Her father is knocking on the door, but he doesn't really need to knock._

No, this is a different door, a different house, her father is gone and the roads here are unmarked.

There is no one knocking on the door.

_He doesn't need to knock. The door is always unlocked. He can just… open… the door._

No, she's good, she's safe, she's strong, she can lock her own fucking doors in her own fucking home now and  _there is no one knocking on the door._

She crams six fingers in her mouth and bites into her fingertips. She presses her forehead against the wall. The tiles are cold and smooth, and her breath leaves warm, damp condensation on them. She focuses on that; she focuses on the pain. She's still breathing. She's breathing.

She's here.

* * *

Rachel is still in Quinn's bedroom, sitting tensely on the edge of Quinn's bed, hands limp in her lap, when Quinn comes back in. She looks up at Quinn, her eyes shining with pain and remorse.

Quinn walks over to her, taking her hand and pulling her up.

"I – I wanna try something," she tells her. "I need your help."

Rachel looks at her for a moment, and nods.

"I need you to close your eyes. And don't move. You can't move your hands. Okay?" Quinn asks her.

"Okay," Rachel says.

And Rachel closes her eyes and clasps her hands behind her back, and just stands there, so trusting, so defenseless.

Quinn feels something sharp and corrosive bubbling in her chest, but she ignores it. She breathes in and out through her nose, closes her own eyes, and leans in.

Rachel's lips are soft, so soft and pliable and cautious, so different from –

_No_ , she will not think about that right now.

Because Rachel's lips are soft and wonderful, and when Quinn presses hers to them Rachel makes the silliest, sweetest little noise through her nose, and Quinn is okay. She's okay.

When she pulls back she realizes that she needs to untangle her fingers from Rachel's hair; she hadn't noticed that she'd even touched it at all. But Rachel's hands are still held firmly behind her back.

Rachel is slow to open her eyes, and when she does, Quinn catches a flash of contentment replaced quickly with concern.

"Are you…?"

Quinn looks at her, and feels a smile burst out of her, giddy and powerful, like blood rushing back into a limb. "Thank you," she tells Rachel, feeling ridiculously earnest. "That was… my first good kiss."

Rachel returns her smile, only slightly more hesitantly. "Is it okay if I hug you now?"

Quinn laughs, sincere and happy, and opens up her arms.

They hug for a long time; longer than Quinn's ever hugged anyone; longer than should be comfortable. But it is. It is. The most comfortable, most at home, that Quinn has ever felt in her life.

When they finally let go, Quinn runs a hand through her hair and bites her lip. "Sleep with me tonight," she asks Rachel.

"Quinn, I – uh –" Rachel stammers, but Quinn waves her hand impatiently.

"I don't mean sex," she clarifies. "I don't want you to sleep on the couch tonight. I wanna hold you all night. I wanna wake up holding you tomorrow."

Rachel looks at her, her face filled with emotion, and does something strange with her lips. Quinn realizes she might have her own boundaries she'd want to protect, her own lines she wouldn't want anyone to cross, and she starts to feel a little guilty for the self-centered request.

But then Rachel nods resolutely. "I would absolutely love that," she says, smiling at Quinn in a way that makes her feel strangely warm.

* * *

Quinn lightly runs her hands over Rachel's shoulders, down her forearms and to her stomach. Her skin is soft, supple, beautiful. It is also covered in scars. Quinn's glimpsed them before, but she's never really looked. There are a lot of teeth marks.

She traces her fingers along a particularly vicious, raised and ragged one on Rachel's ribs. Rachel tenses.

Quinn quickly removes her hand. "Sorry," she whispers.

Rachel nods, and swallows audibly. "Every full moon, they'd put us in cages, four or five of us together," she says, her voice dull and toneless, as if reciting a particularly uninteresting piece of trivia. "Different roommates every time. It's bad enough as humans, but as wolves, all you want is to be with your pack. But you're with strangers. Threats. You get scared. And you have nowhere to run."

Quinn presses her lips to the back of Rachel's neck, not kissing but not letting go.

"We bit each other a lot. We'd wake up covered in blood." A fine tremor runs through Rachel. "Luckily, we heal fast."

Quinn squeezes her eyes shut, fighting tears. She can't imagine how terrifying that would be, night after night, full moon after full moon.

Or, she can. But she really doesn't want to.

"Small spaces have been… a bit of a struggle for me, since," Rachel admits quietly.

Quinn's eyes snap open. "Oh, fuck! Then, my basement –"

Rachel captures Quinn's hand and squeezes. "It's okay. It's a thousand times better than any alternative, trust me. And at least I'm… alone."

Quinn turns her hand within Rachel's to lace their fingers together. She's going to have to find a better alternative. More than anything else, she doesn't want Rachel to have to be  _alone_.

* * *

In the morning Quinn wakes up to find hair in her mouth. She spits and splutters and bats at her face, and then she hears a giggle.

She turns her head to pout at a very messy-haired Rachel. "Your hair got in my mouth," she tells her.

"Be grateful it's not wolf hair," Rachel replies.

Quinn raises an eyebrow. "Is this a bad time to mention that I'm deathly allergic?"

"You are not!" Rachel exclaims, horrified.

"No, I'm not," Quinn concedes, shifting around to lean her head on a palm and stare at the beautiful mess that is just-woke-up, hair-in-someone-else's-mouth Rachel. She hums happily, feeling ridiculously at ease. "I bet you never thought you'd end up living with a recluse," she says.

"I bet you never thought you'd end up living with a  _werewolf_ ," Rachel counters.

Quinn shakes her head. "No, actually I did. I totally did. Ever since I was like, five, pretty much."

"I was sure I'd be dating a vampire," Rachel admits, and touches Quinn's cheek and looks at her, and, at Quinn's subtle nod, kisses her sweetly and insistently for several long moments, her hands safely gripping the bed sheets.

And then, smirking, she adds, "But I suppose you'll do."


	3. Nightmares

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> For Faberry Week 2014 day 7: nightmares

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings: blood and violence.

Often, Rachel dreams of running. Pounding at a surface that isn't quite earth, a dream material that's hard and solid but lacks a consistency, leaping in great big exhilarating bounds – she mostly runs away from things, but it isn't really a nightmare when she knows nothing can catch her. She's the fastest, strongest, she's big and unmatchable, wild but cognizant and free, free, free.

The nightmares are when she doesn't run.

* * *

She doesn't know the exact substance of Quinn's nightmares. She knows Quinn would tell her if she asks, but she isn't interested in asking. Quinn is always silent at night, always, never waking her up with screaming or crying or even a whimper. But one morning Rachel finds blood on Quinn's pillow and blood on her lip, and she understands that a lack of noise isn't really an indication.

* * *

"Do you dream, when you're a wolf?" Quinn asks her one morning.

"I don't really sleep when I'm a wolf," Rachel answers. "I wish I would. It'd make things easier."

Quinn frowns. "Don't you get tired?"

"Yeah."

Quinn looks at her in a soft sort of way, then leans in to kiss her forehead. "I'm gonna make us some coffee."

"Quinn," Rachel calls her. Quinn looks at her questioningly, almost nervous. "You snore, you know."

Quinn laughs, startled. "No way!"

"Oh, absolutely. You're obnoxiously loud."

"Well, you  _kick_ ," Quinn tells her. "Hard! And steal blankets!"

"You drool," Rachel points out.

"So do you!"

"At least I'm graceful about it."

"Bullshit. Nobody's graceful when they're drooling."

"Except for me. I just have an immutable inner nobility."

Quinn sticks out her tongue at her and goes to the kitchen to make the fancy black coffee that she likes. Rachel takes a moment to imagine Quinn's tongue running up the column of her throat and sucking on her pulse point before shaking it off and following Quinn into the kitchen.

* * *

The full moon arrives again all too soon. Quinn fusses over Rachel all through the day, a permanent anxious frown clinging to her brow, which Rachel can't even smooth out with any number of careful kisses. When sunset approaches, Quinn seems to reach nervous energy critical mass, and is practically vibrating with it.

"You'll have warm blankets in case you wanna make a, a nest or something, and I'll leave you extra clothes for the morning after, and there's, uh, the doghouse I built you, I mean, I know you're not a dog, but, maybe you'll want somewhere to, um, burrow? Those vegan friendly dog treats we ordered on ebay haven't arrived yet, I'm so sorry, and I –"

"Quinn," Rachel interrupts her. "It's okay. I'll be fine." She touches Quinn's knuckles lightly. Quinn jumps. "It isn't my first full moon."

"Right," Quinn says, frowning. "I just want… I want it to be a bearable one, you know?"

"I know," Rachel assures her. "Just make sure to make that vegan frittata tomorrow morning, and it will be."

"Solve all the problems with breakfast foods, got it," Quinn says sardonically, but at least she smiles a little.

* * *

Quinn doesn't smile at all once the sun starts to set. Her expression hardens into something impenetrable, no longer visibly anxious, no longer visibly anything. She refuses to meet Rachel's eyes, and simply hands her an enormous pile of soft blankets without comment. Only once Rachel steps into the basement does she even spare her a glance.

"Well, good night," Rachel tells her just before she closes the door. The metallic turning of the key is her only response.

Although, for a second, she thought she might have heard a strangled whimper on the other side of the door.

Rachel takes off her clothes so as not to ruin them, wraps herself tightly in blankets, like a squishy, patchwork cocoon, and settles in for the night.

* * *

Being a wolf is so different from being a woman. Memory of it is like memory of a dream, completely opaque and incomprehensible now, but real in the way that the subconscious must be. A part of her, after all, still.

She doesn't remember much or very clearly. She remembers howling, howling with the pain of confinement and anxiety and the awful, jagged loneliness of the lack of her pack, her family, which has never even existed at all. She remembers sniffing at the keyhole and the creases between walls, desperately and futilely because this prison, like all the others, was of course designed to have no way out. She remembers the adrenaline, which always comes, and spoiling her claws on the plaster walls and bruising her muscles on the door, painted to look like wood but made of metal instead.

She remembers the soft footsteps and the shrill creak of the door and the sudden sliver of light and the sound of human voice, making meaningless noises. She remembers the surge of fear and aggression, and the surge of motion that followed it. She remembers the familiar, sticky tang of blood in her mouth, and the familiar, excruciatingly loud shriek of human pain. She remembers clenching her jaws, the delicious texture of meat giving way under her fangs. And then, suddenly, she remembers pain, and panic, and a desperate need to breathe. She remembers letting go.

She remembers licking her muzzle, and settling down, and finally, finally falling asleep.

Her dreams that night are colorless and frantic and oddly focused on a certain familiar, elusive scent. But there are no nightmares.

* * *

Rachel wakes up feeling warm. Which she absolutely shouldn't be feeling, considering the fact that she's alone and naked on the floor in a basement. But she feels warm, because, she realizes with a jolt, she  _isn't_  alone; instead, she's bundled snugly within Quinn's arms.

Quinn's arms, which are…  _leaking_ … onto her skin.

Distorted memories from last night slide into awareness all in a rush, and she bolts upright, ears ringing with disorientating alarm. Quinn shifts and groans loudly as her eyes flutter open, cradling her mangled arm to her.

"Do you have a fucking death wish," Rachel grits out, beyond furious, not bothering to make it a question.

Quinn gazes up at her, squinting, looking much, much too pleased with herself. "G'morning," she slurs, frighteningly sluggish.

Rachel tastes blood –  _Quinn's_  blood – on her lips. She feels like she's going to retch.

Steeling herself (and pressing her lips as close together as she can), she looks straight at Quinn's right arm. It is covered in dark, crumbly dried blood, and fresh blood is still oozing sluggishly from the long, tattered wounds, which extend all the way from Quinn's wrist to her elbow. It looks, all things considered, pretty damn horrifying.

"How did you do it?" Rachel whispers, shaken.

"Do what? Manage to not get eaten?" Quinn snickers. Rachel doesn't think she's ever heard anything quite so unfunny. "You bit my arm. So I shoved it down your throat. You didn't like that very much, so you let me go."

"Why," Rachel asks, choking on her words, her heartbeat blinding behind her eyes. "Why would risk your fucking  _life_  like that?"

Quinn looks into her eyes then, all amusement gone from her face. "Rachel," she says, deadly serious, "you've basically told me that being locked up like this during transformation, alone, without anyone you trust, was the source of the greatest trauma of your life. And then you tell me that reliving that trauma every single month is the best case scenario for you. You ask me to help you do it. No, you ask me to  _force_  you to do it." She looks away, wincing; from her injury or something else, it's hard to tell. "Well, I didn't want to do that. So… I decided not to."

Rachel stares at Quinn's arm, feeling tears stinging her eyes, her anger dissipating quickly in the face of Quinn's clear anguish. And Quinn has PTSD, Rachel reminds herself. She knows very intimately what it's like to be forced to relive your worst nightmare.

Rachel should never have come here. She should never have stayed.

"You're going to become a wolf now," she tells Quinn harshly. "You know that, right? I bit you. You're going to be a fucking werewolf."

"Hm," Quinn replies dispassionately.

"Don't you get it? You're going to be an outcast, a fugitive! Like  _me._ "

"Then I guess you won't have to be a  _lone wolf_  anymore, huh?" Quinn says with another fucking snicker.

Rachel stares at her, guilt and fear stinging her throat like bile. Quinn just smiles, goofily, lopsidedly, half grin and half grimace, and Rachel just can't take it anymore. All in one motion, desperate and inevitable, she hurls herself at Quinn, snaking her arms under her armpits and all around her back and grabbing hold of her shirt and squeezing, squeezing, and, before she can think to restrain herself, she's weeping openly into Quinn's shirt in great, blubbery sobs that make everything inside her shudder.

And Quinn doesn't flinch, doesn't jump, doesn't pull away. Instead, she rests her cheek on top of Rachel's head and weaves five fingers in Rachel's grimy hair and drags her bleeding arm onto Rachel's shoulder, the torn flesh wet and ragged against Rachel's naked skin.

And she sighs and she adds, very quietly, "And neither will I."


	4. Unresolved Sexual Tension

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For Faberry week 2014 the sequel day 1: unresolved sexual tension.
> 
> **Warning** for explicit discussion of child sexual abuse, mentions of past violence, some nsfw talk. Please read with caution.

Quinn builds things. It doesn't seem like it'd suit her, but it does. There's something about her that's just compatible with creating.

Rachel admires and envies that in her. It feels like so long since she herself has done anything but destroy.

"It calms me down. Repetitive tasks, you know," Quinn tells her with a wry smile. "Better than banging my head against the wall."

She says that, and looks just a little resigned or self-deprecating, but when she stands outside, covered in bulky layers, swinging an axe into big blocks of wood, her breath forming clouds and sweat in her eyebrows; when she kneels at her table, dusty work gloves on, carefully working a saw; when she sits crossed legged on the floor with a scalpel or a file, bare toes curling and flexing, curling and flexing, absent-minded, completely absorbed – she looks beautiful and at peace and exactly like she knows what she's doing.

And Rachel, Rachel can only really watch, chin on a fist, and contribute nothing.

* * *

"Give me a date," Rachel says one evening as Quinn returns from chopping up firewood, flushed and sweating and sprinkled with splinters.

"What?" Quinn pants, dropping her armful of logs in a pile.

"You can give me a date," Rachel repeats. "For when you want me out of here."

"Out of here?" Quinn frowns, and a drop of sweat trickles down her forehead and into her eye. She rubs at it, looking angry and slightly adorable. "What the fuck are you talking about?"

But Rachel is angry at herself, too. "I can't stay here indefinitely."

"Yes, you can!" Quinn states emphatically. "You're, like, my werewolf sire! You'd leave me without proper guidance and possibly an undisclosed, vaguely sinister werewolf agenda?"

Rachel knows Quinn's words were said jokingly, but the reminder of what Rachel's done to her is like a clenched fist in her gut. She grimaces. "It's not… I don't even pay you rent."

Quinn runs agitated fingers through her hair. "If I charged you rent, would you stay?" she asks, a little desperately.

Rachel shakes her head, the grip on her stomach tightening. "I couldn't pay you. I don't have…"

"Okay, then don't," Quinn quickly interjects. "Listen, there are certain significant advantages to being me," she says in a rush. "Or, there are certain significant advantages to being a rich white girl." She gestures to the house around them, a jerky, inelegant motion. "That's one of them. Let me share it with you, yeah? Sharing it with you has been…" she pauses, breathing loudly, fighting against something, or for something, maybe, "the only thing worth doing that I've done in, in a while." She looks at Rachel then, an almost alarming sincerity in her expression. "Just… stay. Please."

Despite herself, Rachel feels herself soften. "As your werewolf sire?" she asks, fighting a smirk.

"As my girlfriend," Quinn says, quick, nervous, unhesitant. "If you want."

"Yeah," Rachel says gently, with a resigned sigh. "I think I really do."

Quinn nods repeatedly, her eyes shiny with excess moisture. "Okay," she says thickly. "Okay. That's… yeah. That's settled, then."

Rachel presses a chaste but lingering kiss to Quinn's lips, and gently captures any tears that escape, catching them with her thumb and wiping them on Quinn's shirt. Quinn sniffs and laughs and chases Rachel to the bathroom, threatening to wipe her nose on Rachel's beautiful hair.

* * *

"Teach me how to build something," Rachel asks Quinn, who is making pancakes and wearing a very frilly apron.

Quinn looks at her over her shoulder with a raised eyebrow. "If you teach me how to sing something," she says and flips a pancake without looking.

They make a chair together. To Rachel's astonishment, it's perfectly steady. It stands evenly on four wooden legs – four wooden legs that Rachel made – and easily takes the weight of one werewolf, and another werewolf in that werewolf's lap.

"I'm not crushing you?" Quinn asks again, readjusting her ass.

"You're not that heavy," Rachel reassures her. "And I'm not that fragile."

"Let me know if your legs fall asleep or something," Quinn says with a smile, moving her hand from the edge of the seat to Rachel's neck, just below her jaw, a feather-light touch that sends a shiver through Rachel. Rachel closes her eyes and tips up her head, and is rewarded with a kiss, slow and sweet and lingering. Quinn's fingers ghost over her skin to tangle in her hair, and Rachel places her hands on Quinn's waist, holding her steady as their kiss deepens.

Quinn bites down on Rachel's lip, nibbling on it lightly, and Rachel moans, mindlessly sliding her hand under Quinn's shirt, trailing up her stomach. Suddenly, Quinn grunts loudly and shoves at her, hard, slipping off the chair to the floor.

"Fuck," Quinn mutters, her eyes darting around, her breaths quick and short. "Fuck. Sorry, Rachel."

Rachel stares. Quinn sits awkwardly on the floor, leaning back on her palms, not looking at her. "No," Rachel says dully. " _I'm_  sorry. I forgot. About the hands." She feels a lump form in her throat, sore and scared. "Are you…"

Quinn shakes her head. Still doesn't look at Rachel. "I'm not having an episode. It's not always like that."

"Oh," Rachel says quietly. "That's… good."

"I'm gonna go shower." Quinn jumps fluidly to her feet and walks out, leaving Rachel sitting alone on the perfectly steady chair that she made.

* * *

Quinn comes out of the bathroom an hour and a half later, completely dry and wearing the same clothes. She walks up to Rachel, who is reading a biochemistry book to calm herself down, and refuses to look in her eyes. "Okay, hey, I need to… Let's sit down for a minute?" Quinn says, hands shoved in her pockets halfway.

They sit on opposite sides of the coffee table and Quinn places two mugs of tea in front of them, which they proceed to fiddle with and not drink.

"My dad, um, used to… hurt me." Quinn laughs nervously, a shaky and terrifying smile on her lips. She wipes her hand over them, but the smile stays. "Sorry," she says. "It's not funny at all."

Rachel bites the inside of her mouth. She doesn't want to say the wrong thing, and, most importantly, she can't give in to her instinct to touch Quinn. She knows that would be the worst thing she could do right now, but the urge is incredibly powerful.

"He used to, um, touch me, you know," Quinn continues. "Yeah. Sorry. My dad was a rapist."

And she's still smiling, smiling, but her hands are trembling, and her breaths are audible and terrifying, wheezy and fractured. Rachel reaches out and rests her hands on top of the table next to Quinn's, not close enough to feel, but still close enough, she hopes.

Quinn doesn't move to touch them, but she looks; and, finally, finally, stops smiling.

"He died before I could tell him that I will never forgive him," Quinn says, frowning down at the table. "You know? He's dead. But he will never stop hurting me."

"No one will ever hurt you again," Rachel vows. "I will eat anyone who tries."

Quinn frowns at her, almost angry, almost hurt; but then she softens, and then snorts, tears finally leaking steadily out of her eyes, and gently moves her hand on top of Rachel's. Rachel turns her hand over, palm up, and their fingers slip between each other, easy and quick, like liquid soaking into fabric.

* * *

Sometimes they wake up at the same time, soaked and shivering, and it's really rather funny and slightly horrifying and altogether  _nice_  that they can hold each other then, damp and jerky and silent, neither really the comforter nor the comforted.

Or, no – in all honesty, both.

* * *

"We have a week," Quinn says, "Right? Before the next full moon."

Rachel nods. "Before your first transformation."

"I can feel it," Quinn murmurs. "It's kind of unpleasant."

"The first time's the most overwhelming. You'll get used to it. Sometimes it even feels sort of nice."

"What's it like?" Quinn asks her. "To just fucking turn into a wolf?"

"It's not so bad. No excruciating pain or the sound of bones crunching or anything like that. It's more like growing pains. And the fur takes a while to get used to," Rachel says. "But mostly, being a wolf isn't so bad. It's… the reaction… that's, um, that's harder." Rachel feels the pressure in her throat; tries to swallow it down, but can't.

Quinn squeezes her hand, frowning. "I'll be honest with you, the outcast thing doesn't bother me at all. You may have noticed, I am kind of a loner," she says, smiling lopsidedly. "But I've – I've always wanted this kind of power," she admits, looking at nothing. "To be dangerous. To be… scary."

Rachel nods. It makes sense. It's one thing she's noticed: Quinn makes sense to her.

"Not so noble, right," Quinn remarks, glancing at her.

Rachel shakes her head. "I think you're entitled to a little bit of selfish."

Quinn twists her lips in an ugly scowl. "I think you deserve so much better than that."

Rachel trails her middle finger deliberately over one of the newly healed scars on Quinn's forearm. Quinn shivers and exhales. "I think," Rachel intones, "you should stop making those decisions for me."

Quinn closes her eyes, still scowling, and pulls Rachel to her by her sweatshirt, burying her face in Rachel's neck. "I guess I'm scared," she says, her lips grazing Rachel's throat, her words a warm, exhilarating caress.

"Yes, I got that," Rachel replies gently, looping her arms loosely around Quinn's shoulders.

"I guess I'm happy," Quinn adds.

Rachel smiles, a little, maybe. "I guess I am, too."

Quinn nuzzles her neck, inhaling deeply. "You smell so good," she practically purrs. "Ever since."

Rachel bites her lip. "Quinn," she murmurs. "I'm not sure you realize how much you're turning me on right now."

She feels Quinn tense and reluctantly pulls away. "Sorry," she says with a bitter smile. "Forget I said that."

Quinn shakes her head. "No, it's…" The reassurance dies halfway through. Quinn sighs and slumps back. "I don't think I'm ever gonna want sex," she admits, mirroring Rachel's sour smile almost perfectly. "I'm sorry. I don't mean to be a tease. I think I need to touch you like I need to breathe. But I don't wanna fuck you."

The words are cold and simple, without comfort or pretence. But Rachel understands; she can't help understanding. Unbearably, relentlessly, Quinn makes sense to her. She nods. "I want you," she confesses simply. "But I don't want to want you in any way you don't want me to. I'll give whatever you want to take."

Quinn shakes her head some more, a strange laugh escaping her. "I love you," she blurts out. "God, I fucking love you. Sorry, Rachel. Come here?"

Hesitantly, Rachel leans back in. Quinn immediately wraps herself up in her, pressing an unbearably tender, unending kiss to the underside of Rachel's jaw. They cuddle, very warm and just the slightest bit uncomfortable, and as Rachel feels the muted tug of the approaching full moon, she can't help thinking that this time it might be different.

* * *

"You still haven't taught me any songs," Quinn accuses, deliberately manhandling Rachel's beautiful chair and frowning approvingly.

Rachel shrugs. "I don't really think I'm in any position to teach."

Quinn just gives her a look, and Rachel tips her head and snorts in concession. She leads Quinn through some warm up exercises and corrects her posture and places a palm on Quinn's chest, driven by a strange urge to feel the progress of her breaths, the vibrations of her voice.

They sing together. And even though Quinn's voice is rough and inexperienced, and even though Rachel has been nearly exhausted of enthusiasm for music, they harmonize. And it feels, if not quite perfect, then at least the very closest that Rachel's gotten in a rather significantly long while.


End file.
